


Leaves and Mixtapes.

by drinkginandkerosene



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:11:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkginandkerosene/pseuds/drinkginandkerosene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan only liked the idea of love in theory until he met Courf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaves and Mixtapes.

I only liked the idea of love before I fell in love with you.

You had your arm around me, touching my shoulder with hands smeared with paint, and when we kissed, it didn’t matter that I was seeing a therapist twice a week and sometimes the curve of your mouth was too sad for someone so young. I wasn’t naive enough to think I could make you happy but I did know I wanted to try. You mumbled something in french against me, and I didn’t know what you said but I felt it in my bones.

I didn’t just fall in love with you. I fell in love with old-fashioned mixtapes, with the cover designed in felt-tip and biro, hidden under your chalks for you to find. I fell in love with old musical reruns lying on the sofa together, the winter cold driving us together. We were just friends until we weren’t.

I scrawled love poetry in all the places you wouldn’t find it, on dry leaves, subway carriages, coffee cups. One day you read it on my face, and when you kissed me, I was so scared that you’d realise I was barely here, a supporting character in your life. One day, years later, you told me I was the romantic lead, and when we kissed, I tasted of ink.

I don’t get afraid that I’m going to wake up alone anymore. Because some mornings, the room will be painted in blue dawn light, but you will never be far, and even if you were, you’d come back. I found a home in the spaces between your ribs, and you can’t run away from that without carrying it with you.

“I love you.” Sounds not like a confession, but like a promise.

And one day, you found me crying, and you didn’t lie to me with ‘you’re beautiful’ or ‘you’re perfect’. Instead your fingers left bruises on my hips that felt like heaven, and you told me that if I wasn’t perfect, you hoped I never was. 

We don’t hold hands in public. Instead, we pretend to be secret agents, and pass notes to each other. We don’t have arms around each other. Instead we chase each other on the crowded avenues, meeting in Central Park, the autumn colours matching my hair and your nose and the colour of your sighs in the evening.

You compliment my shitty fifth-grade style poetry and I don’t tell you to shut up because you don’t flatter. You just tell. So I just blush and stare at my boots with the painted daises on. I write poetry on your lips next.

I know I’m meant to lose myself in you, but it never felt like losing anything. It felt like I found something. Something worth keeping.


End file.
